A Suitable Consort (For the King and His Husband)

by R. Cooper

  “Keeper.” Mattin wet his lower lip and ignored the faint quiver in his stomach. “Master Keeper, if you prefer, but Keeper will do. Arlylian is what my ancestors did, but Keeper is what I have done for myself.”

  Per Tyrabalith paused, then raised both eyebrows in a graceful expression of surprise. “Yes, so you have,” he answered at last. “With remarkable swiftness. But you have much to do, do you not? Your position might remain with less work. That is something to consider.” He gestured with the empty cup to Mattin’s full one. “But in the meantime, you might enjoy your evening, and try to momentarily forget all that is expected of you, Master Keeper Arlylian. Most of us never get the pleasure.”

  He rose to his feet while Mattin was picking apart his words. Mattin watched him walk away, no less annoyed than he had been a moment before, only for that to shift into confusion when apparently the absence of Per Tyrabalith was a signal for several of the younger nobles to surround Mattin in order to share their opinion of the gathering, Arden’s beard, Mattin’s robe, and the food.

  Mattin had half a moment to wonder if the others had been wary of talking to him until now, and then another to wonder why, before the crowd just as abruptly dispersed with various murmured excuses and one rather bold wink.

  The reason they had all politely removed themselves from Mattin’s orbit became apparent when a new figure appeared next to his bench. Unlike the presumptuous Per Tyrabalith, and though she would have had the right to, Jola Canamorra did not sit down.

  Mattin got up, or started to, but was waved down almost impatiently.

  “I supposed that having a slightly younger set around might ease things, but I think I supposed wrong.” Jola was two or three years below her brother in age, and darker of complexion. Her smile lifted her plump cheeks and was nearly as bright as the clasps at her temples. The golden bees were not enameled glass as Mattin’s clasps often were, and were charmingly arranged to seem to be eyeing the real flowers tucked into the many braids she had pinned up behind her ears. Her long robe reached nearly to the floor, and was the same warm yellow as her pants, which she wore in the loose style.

  “Ease things?” Mattin echoed blankly, looking up from admiring the heels of her boots.

  “He never had to survive at court as an adult, never had to learn to negotiate the different groups and silly allegiances that form at young ages. I thought it might do him some good to be around that.” Jola did not drop her smile although she lowered her voice. “And I thought it would benefit you as well, to have some of your friends here. I admit, I did not expect them to fall over you quite so obviously.” She glanced over her shoulder, then looked back to Mattin and lifted her eyebrows in question. “But your outfit is quite striking, especially with that necklace. Well done.”

  “Oh.” Mattin did not know what to make of that. “Thank you for thinking of me, but that wasn’t necessary.” Perhaps the wine or his empty stomach made him then add, “I begin to think that others feel I have more power than I do. They were not fawning over me in particular.”

  “It takes sense to recognize what is done to gain things and what is genuinely meant.” Jola’s expression became a touch more serious. “I commend you for it, but I wonder if you are correct, Master Keeper.”

  She knew who he was as well.

  Mattin shot a look over to Arden and jumped when their eyes met. Mil put his chin on Arden’s shoulder to whisper something in his ear.

  Mattin quickly turned back to Jola. “The king has spoken of me?”

  Jola’s eyebrows flew upward once more before she also glanced at her brother. “Master Keeper Arlylian,” she said slowly after turning her back on Arden, “I have been here for the past decades of unrest. I remember Tye and how she tried to use the Library. And I know not everyone was pleased when so many others asked a Canamorra to take the throne, especially not in the very beginning of my brother’s reign, when people were, perhaps rightfully, afraid to trust or to hope for peace. You were young to make such a brave choice.” Mattin felt he could not look away without disappointing her, so he did not, holding his cup tighter. He had no words, but Jola did not seem to expect any, although something made her eyes bright. “You didn’t even know them then, and from what they tell me, it is only in the past two years that you have grown so close to them. If you don’t realize how special that is, which I think you do not, I will tell you that a childhood here under the scrutiny of countless eyes does not lend itself to trust. But they trust you. They trust you enough to let you manage their hearts. My fool of a brother inspires this sort of thing, but he doesn’t always fully realize the risk for others. So I wanted you to know that I realize it, and I thank you.”

  “Oh.” Mattin finally dropped his gaze. “It is not….” He was not selfless. He enjoyed being a Keeper and he enjoyed that he had somehow wound up sharing breakfast with the king and his husband more often than not, and he enjoyed… thinking that in some way he was helping to keep them both safe. “It’s what we are supposed to do.” He finally settled on the truth, but as spoken by a diplomatic Master Keeper. He looked up from his pink wine. “The records exist to be used, to help those in the future.”

  “And to help make royal matches?” Jola asked then, regarding Mattin with the same impassive face that her brother had perfected.

  “I don’t know what he told you,” Mattin muttered, startling himself with the irritation in his voice. “I will do the best I can for them.”

  “Yes, they mentioned that. I had my doubts, but now I’ve met you and those are rapidly disappearing.” Jola still did not take the seat next to him, but neither did she leave. “Your list was rather astonishing, and I did not quite know what to make of it during my initial reading. But when I read it with a mind for the gaps, it was almost a code. Not that I know anything of codes.”

  Mattin considered her confined to a room for months and yet still finding allies and support, and then wondered if Piya’s suspicions had been at least partly correct. Jola might not have wanted to make herself ruler, but some took to being eyes-and-ears more seriously than others. She might have simply thought it wise to stay informed in such troubled times, although it had not saved her from arrest.

  Then he disregarded the thought because that was Canamorra business and only partly related to his task.

  “Do you have thoughts about the list?” Mattin took a deep breath. “The king seems displeased but will not tell me why.”

  “He has heard my thoughts.” Jola’s reply told him nothing, as it was likely intended to.

  “But he sent you here?” Mattin asked, then hesitated at her sharp look. “I mean, he asked you to come here, didn’t he? To help him with this?”

  “Pff. I came here because he knows some things of people, but in other areas, he is next to useless. This matter is important.”

  “The country…”

  “Certainly.” Jola cut him off. “But also him, and dear Mil. They are important too. You understand this?”

  Mattin raised a hand to the sky, palm up, to indicate his exasperation and confusion and perhaps make a plea for help. “Mil is there. I mean—Captain Wulfa is there with him, if he needs…. Mil is slightly better at other aspects of… people.”

  “Mil is better at demonstrating his devotion, even if he does not speak it.” Jola sighed, then tossed a look back to where Arden and Mil were now trapped in conversation with several of the elder Racetia, who were nice but tended to talk without pausing for breath. “He expressed some concern over how quickly you’ve finished your wine, and here I find you with another cup.” She quirked her lips and waved off Mattin’s dismay. “I say enjoy it, Master Keeper. Chances to relax and have fun are few and far between for some of us. If you wish to have more, and to beckon your troop of potential suitors back here once I have gone, I say do it. Perhaps Mil Wulfa and Arden of the Canamorra will learn something.”

  Mattin looked over, half-expecting to get caught again, and idly took a drink of his wine. “I suppose I shoul
d eat something,” he said to Jola, but to appease Mil, who kept glancing at him.

  “Do,” Jola said pleasantly, and drew Mattin’s attention back by briefly placing a hand on his shoulder. “Take what innocent pleasures you may, but make your decisions with your head and heart clear. I am sure I will speak to you again soon, Master Keeper Arlylian.”

  Mattin did get to his feet this time, respectfully waiting for her to get some distance away before he toppled back onto the cushion and drained his cup.

  A soft-voiced servant interrupted his bemused fretting to offer him a tray of food and another cup of wine. He accepted both, with his thanks, and consumed them while all of Jola’s most handsome or athletic guests paid their respects to Arden, and sometimes, to his husband as well. He watched as Arden listened and leaned down to answer, and as Mil murmured into his ear in their brief moments alone. Then someone handed Mattin a new cup and sat next to him to gossip about it all, and he drank that while nodding politely and setting aside a few scraps of information casually passed his way.

  He nearly forgot them all by the time that cup was emptied, and had the brief worry that he was behaving inappropriately, for he was so hot and the cushion was so comfortable. But then a different very friendly someone brought him a plate of tiny cakes and another cup, full to the brim, and smiled at him, and after a while, Mattin forgot his worries entirely.

  “I haven’t not been worried in years,” he explained to Jola Canamorra in amazement, hoping he made sense. He could not recall her sitting next to him. But she might have been bored. The party seemed to have grown smaller and quieter since Mattin had last looked around.

  Jola patted Mattin’s head where it rested on her shoulder and perhaps smiled meanly across the room as she had done once or twice as Mattin had talked with her. “I understand perfectly. Not all of us get to run away to join the Outguard.”

  Mattin nodded, then frowned. “They’re heroes, you know. Heroes. And they love each other so much. So much that no one else could compare.”

  “Hmm.” Jola had a laugh like the tinkle of a bell. “I think it’s time we get you home, Master Keeper. Home and cared for.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” Mattin assured her. “I’ve crossed the palace many a time so tired I could barely walk. This is nothing.” With that, he thanked her warmly for her hospitality and stumbled sleepily to his feet.

  And then perhaps to the floor, or almost, before strong arms caught him.

  Mattin held onto the strong arms distractedly, a hand on each forearm on either side of him. He was too hot and too cold in turns, sandwiched between two warm bodies but his front and back exposed to the freezing night air.

  The corridor was not enclosed. Mattin considered, not for the first time, if the buildings with the open-air corridors and walkways had been built by people who did not know what winter was. Perhaps builders from one of the warmer coastal provinces.

  A blast of wind made him stop to shiver. The people around him stopped with him.

  “Are you well?” asked a voice like a lit brazier.

  “I’d fetch you water if I thought you’d keep it down,” offered another voice, rough enough to make Mattin shiver again.

  “It’s cold,” he complained tiredly, raising his head.

  Someone huffed, the sound almost a laugh. “It is winter, dear heart,” said the beautiful voice in a tone which implied it had been said before. “And you could not recall where you had left your cloak, if any.”

  “Suspect he thought the robe was enough,” someone muttered.

  Mattin turned to Mil, but had to tip his head back to see his face. They were very close. He was not sure he and Mil had ever been so close before. “My hands are warm, though.” Mattin dropped his head to solve this riddle, and realized he was arm-in-arm with his king and his king’s husband, and his hands were tucked into their sleeves. He smiled and resumed walking when he was gently tugged onward.

  “Are you seeing me to my room?” He curled his fingers into fine cloth warmed by their body heat. “Walking at night can be lonesome, at times, although it is less frightening these days. Have you seen more guards around? Mill, have you put more about? But it’s so cold. The poor things.”

  Several yards in front of them were two guards, keeping a steady pace. One of them coughed. Mil growled something.

  Mattin arched an eyebrow. “I assure you both I can make it home without incident.” He struggled to make the words clear and briefly scowled for it. “I always have before.”

  Mil, apparently, still felt like growling. “Sass, if I didn’t think you’d never forgive me for it, I’d carry you. You can barely stay up as it is.”

  “Not enough sleep. Not enough food.” Arden sighed.

  “Oh. Oh no.” Mattin stopped again. Everyone else stopped with him. “Did I make a fool of myself?” He tipped his head up dizzily to look from Mil to Arden.

  Arden answered. “No. You sat with Jola and had a long talk.” He paused, disgruntled. “She would not say what you talked about. But… I am sorry if you have not been able to have fun because of your work for us. I should have thought. You are young for a Keeper, and we kept asking more of you. And now we would ask even more—my sister is genius at making me realize my failings.”

  Mattin blinked several times. “She asked what Per Tyrabalith said to me. And… and… we spoke of you, of you two. No failings.”

  “She should not have kept you from your friends. The others your age,” Arden insisted.

  “How dare you,” Mattin breathed, and yanked his hand from Arden’s arm to latch more firmly onto Mil’s. “What is he even talking about?” he complained to Mil. “I chose to be an assistant, and a Keeper, and I think I’ve been a good Master Keeper, even if I am young for it and perhaps I fell over in front of Jola Canamorra. Ah. She complimented my necklace.”

  “It is a charming necklace,” Arden agreed. Mil’s eyes were hard to read in only the light from some distant braziers, but Mattin thought he shared Arden’s opinion. The links of silver were cold on Mattin’s skin now, but looking at Mil made him hot.

  “Perhaps we ought to keep walking, Sass,” Mil finally suggested, tugging Mattin along again. Mattin went, reaching out for Arden’s arm when the corridor swayed.

  “And yet,” Arden began again after a few steps, cautious, “I do not think this is usual for you. Not when a pot of tea and a book pleases you more.”

  “And definitely not in front of any other beat-of-fours,” Mil contributed.

  “Don’t be mean,” Mattin chided Mil.

  “I wasn’t, Sass,” Mil told him warmly. “I only meant that you like to look your best around them.”

  “Youngest of a youngest,” Mattin explained quietly. “Plain. And an assistant.”

  “You’re a Master Keeper now, Mattin Arlylian.” For a moment, Arden’s other hand settled on top of Mattin’s on his arm.

  “There was no one else,” Mattin confessed. Then he made a face. “You understand that. I know you do. Being chosen because there is no one else.”

  “It might be why you’re chosen, but it’s not why you succeed,” Mil said in his low rumble. “That’s a matter of mettle.”

  Mattin shook his head. “You were handed a country seething with resentments and past wounds. I must seem childish, worrying over wine and… and… hair clasps.”

  “Seems to me you worry over everything. But the clasps are lovely, Sass. Don’t doubt that.”

  “Really?” Mattin leaned against Arden to better study Mil.

  “Many mentioned them to us,” Arden assured him after Mil’s strangely tentative smile had rendered Mattin silent. “They were sure to,” he added, so softly Mattin almost missed it. Then Arden raised his voice again. “You have wonderful taste.”

  “Well.” Mattin’s face was too cold for blushes, surely. “Blue is not my usual color, but you are fond of it, and I wanted to be supportive. Wasn’t I?” he asked Mil. “I was there. I even tried to be a good eyes-and-ears, although—I didn�
�t mean to have too much.”

  “Oh, that we are sure of.” Mil looked over Mattin’s head to Arden, and then Mattin was abruptly lifted off his feet and held between the two of them as they walked up some stairs. They placed him gently on the ground again the moment they reached the second floor corridor. “First, The Tyrabalith gave you more, and then Jola encouraged it. But at least you looked to be having fun.”

  “I have fun.” Mattin wrinkled his nose. “I have fun all the time. I might not sneak out to taverns…” he swung a fiercely suspicious look to both of them, letting them carry him when he could not do that and walk at the same time. The shoulders of the two guards in front of them appeared to be shaking. They were older guards. That was who Mil and Arden had kept on, after the dust had settled. The guards who had left after Jola had been taken, or who had helped Mil open the gate to bring in the Outguard. And, of course, some older outguards themselves now served as the king’s personal protection. Mil would trust no one else. “Oh. Yes.” Mattin nodded as he realized something. “You don’t get to have fun anymore, either.”

  “We do,” Mil confided, a sudden whisper against Mattin’s ear, “just in private.”

  Mattin’s words shook as a thrill went down his back. “Were they pretty?” he wondered breathlessly. “The others you….” He shut that away without saying it, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip instead. “Your sister told me to have more fun. But I do. There is nothing wrong with liking a pot of tea!” he declared hotly, and huffed at the sound of laughter from one of the guards behind them.

  “Soul of an old fusspot,” Mil said fondly.

  “But you don’t,” Mattin argued, although he was not quite sure what they were arguing about. “She said… ah, that you joined the Outguard to get away. That must have been such a relief.” The night air was suddenly much quieter. “You both got to have fun, at least at first. That makes me happy.”

  “Does it?” Arden’s attention seemed even more intense than usual.